


A Study In Jumpers

by annacpeyxo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Death, Childhood, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:32:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3427955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annacpeyxo/pseuds/annacpeyxo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A journey to Blackpool was quite honestly the last thing that any of the Holmes family wanted, but they just had to get away. They had to get away from what had happened before, even though the cause of it was right next to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study In Jumpers

**Author's Note:**

> An idea I got on the way to Blackpool with my two brothers. Yep. Not very imaginative, but at least it's informed.  
> Hope you enjoy, and please leave a review/comment if you see any mistakes so I can correct them! I'm not brilliant at being thorough with my writing.  
> Next chapter will be up next week (probably), as I will only be writing this when I am ill/in holidays.  
> Love ya, see ya, bye!

**Chapter One**

To be honest, Sherlock was spending the whole journey planning on how to kill his parents in the most painful way possible. So was his brother, Mycroft, and you would’ve thought that would have brought them closer. If you still do, you obviously know nothing about the Holmes brothers. All three of them.

Yes. Three. Don’t look so surprised. Mr and Mrs H did have “cuddles” more than twice, you know. Gosh, do you know anything? Even I know this and I’m… Well, I’m nobody. Just no one. But I do have a purpose: to tell you about m- I mean, to tell you about this extraordinary family. That’s what I’m here for.

“Come on, boys, cheer up! Gosh, why are you all in such a mood?” Mary Holmes tutted at her sons, knitting her eyebrows as she went back to her notebook. It contained a mathematical problem that even London University’s greatest minds couldn’t fix, so she’d decided to give it a try. Just something to occupy her mind as her husband drove them down to Blackpool. A place where they could get away from all that had happened before. The reason why Sherlock, Mycroft and Sherrinford were so distracted.

But that’s not important. What’s important is what happened on this trip. You don’t need to know about before. Before never happened. Before does not exist here. It’s just now. That is all.

“Because you and father are being such insufferable goldfish…” Sherrinford breathed, pressing his cheek against the window. He could see Mycroft looking at him like he’d just proposed homicide and smirked. He rolled his eyes at his eight and four year old brothers wide-eyed reflections and stuck his tongue out. As we all know, to children below ten that is a mortal sin. It was reacted to as such.

“Sherrinford just stuck his tongue out at me!” Sherlock whined, sticking his head in between their parents’ seats and pouting. Just before Siber and his wife could react Mycroft intervened, placing a comforting but commandeering hand on the small of his younger brother’s back. The four year old squirmed under his touch but obeyed it, following it as it laid him in his seat and insurreptuosly handed him one of the chocolates they’d swiped from the fridge. No need to get unnecessary attention.

“No, he didn’t. I wouldn’t worry about it, mother, Sherlock’s just bored,” He reassured the woman in front, sending his older brother a sideways glare. Sherrinford returned it with twice as much malice and Mycroft knew he’d get no sleep tonight. The ten year old’s favourite punishment for his brothers just happened to be the most psychotic: horror stories.

At first it was ghosts. Ghastly tales about a dead butler haunting their cupboards and vengeful murder victims would bounce around Mycroft’s head at night, making him toss and turn. He was only eight, and the fact that there was the slimmest chance of these things existing did not help his sleeping habits. After reason was introduced to them by a father who was fed up of screaming children at three o’clock in the morning, Sherrinford switched to possible happenings, most frequently including insane serial killers at the centre of a web. They were always his favourite. They still are.

“Myc! This has mercury on the wrapper!” Sherlock shouted, thrusting the purple foil into his brother’s face and alerting their mother to their deed. Mycroft didn’t bother with listening to her, though, snatching the paper from the four year old’s hand and sniffing. Mercury. Now how could it have gotten there?

Sherlock couldn’t have done it: he may have the mind of a philosopher, but according to MumsNet it is not safe to hand any child dangerous chemicals. Mrs Holmes didn’t completely agree with that, but guessed that it was for the best. Mycroft wouldn’t have done it: even though his brothers are the bane of his life, he wouldn’t want to kill them. He’s not that rude. What happened ‘before’ had nothing to do with it. Like it has nothing to do with anything. Not anymore. There was only one solid conclusion.

Sherrinford.

The ten year old certainly was insane enough to do it. He’d done this sort of thing before: he even killed the family cat by feeding it live mice with sulphuric acid running through their blood streams. He could do it and he would. INTP personality type is typical in a psychopath, he remembered reading up on that somewhere. The question was, why would he want to kill Sherlock?

You may be wondering how he knew that the four year old was Sherrinford’s victim, aside from the obvious remark that the middle brother was smart enough to know. Well, Mrs Holmes was on a diet, so did not touch the stuff and probably wouldn’t until Christmas came around. Mr Holmes was allergic: the moment the delicacy touched his lips he’d be blowing up like a balloon. Mycroft himself detested the thing, electing for a nice piece of cake rather than anything cheap.

Sherlock, however, adored it, as all four year olds do. He’d quite usually be rationed to one piece a day, and so would resort to sulking in the corner of his bedroom for hours at a time. In fact, the only way that Mycroft could get him to listen was by sneaking a Quality Street into his waiting hand under the dinner table. So, it’s simple. Sherlock. In fact, even I figured it out before him. I’d figured it out when I saw Sherrinford do it.

Anyway, I’m going on a tangent.

“Mycroft Holmes, are you listening to me?!” Mary raged, peering over the back of her seat with mean eyes. At first, Mycroft considered telling her the truth: that he hadn’t been listening because the court of his mind had been convicting his older brother to twenty years in prison for attempted murder. But, as we all know, who would? Who would admit to anything when they could deduct just what a person had said?

“Yes, Mummy,” He mumbled, shoving the wrapper into his pocket. He’d talk to the ten year old later. Nobody hurts his little brother. Nobody. “You said that it was a stupid thing to do and that I should have learnt from last time. I’m sorry.”

“Good. Now, I’ve got a question for you,” She passed back the notebook, her working gently rubbed out with only the main question remaining. “Good luck.”

***** *** *****

The family car pulled up just as Sherlock wrote the last digit. As he looked up to hand the paper back and receive his mother’s praise, he caught sight of the picturesque scene in front of him and, for once in his life, the youngest Holmes was speechless.

A large hotel towered above them, dwarfing their small Honda. It’s windows gaped open, leading into beautiful rooms with pillow mints and room service. This is what captivated the adults’ minds as they climbed out of the car, stepping backwards to take in the extravagance. It was even more beautiful than they remembered. Amazing.

The children, however, were occupied with different things entirely.

Mycroft, who’d already jumped out of the car as soon as they’d arrived, was staring at a public garden surrounding the place. It was full of people, all of them different, and the eight year old was ecstatic. Not only would he be able to live in a place fit for a future ruler of England, he would also get the chance to deduce each and every one of these goldfish. And he couldn’t wait.

Sherlock’s eyes lit up as soon as he saw the playground at the back. Full to the brim with other children and oozing excitement, he couldn’t wait to make friends. Maybe they wouldn’t think he was weird, and maybe Mycroft would let him play with them. Of course, he didn’t understand why Myc was worried for him. But that was “before”. And again, before is not important.

Sherrinford, however, glared disdainfully at the place, regarding every inch as inadequate. He glared at his brothers, annoyed that at least one of them hadn’t “passed away”, as his mother so lightly put it. He glared at his parents, angry that they’d prevented him from taking anything interesting with him. But, most of all, he glared the third one along on the fifth row of windows.

You may be wondering why it was such a particular window. Well, Sherrinford had something in there. Something that wasn’t worth the title of “thing”. A thing that he needed. A thing that he had. And it made him sick to the stomach.

“Come on then, boys! Why don’t you go explore and we’ll meet you in the reception?” Siger Holmes bent down to their level, smiling as Sherlock’s face lit up and he ran in the general direction of the play area. Mycroft, brow knitted in worry, followed after him, calling out to the four year old to slow down. Sherrinford’s eyes darted around as he skulked off towards the doors. He was ready.

***** *** *****

“Mary, I think Sherrinford knows what really happened,” Mr Holmes turned to his wife as soon as the three children were out of sight, grey eyes panicked. The woman in front of him looked as if she had come to exactly the same conclusion as him. They were both petrified.

“H-He can’t! You know what he’ll do…” They subconsciously looked towards the door that their eldest son had just gone through, scared.

“Look: he can’t know what really happened to Charlotte. No one can know.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s the one who did it.”


End file.
